The Victors' Daughter
by Ma6ic-Un1c0rn
Summary: This takes place in the whole "Prim was never reaped and Peeta just died" thing. This is the 77th Hunger Games, and there is no talk of a Mockingjay, nor is there any talk of a rebellion. Katniss was never in the Hunger Games, and they went on living their lives like normal people. This is the story of Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta's child, who was born and raised in District 4.
1. Chapter 1

**District Four - **_**the morning of the Reaping**_

A glimmer of a sunray flashes across the room, shining bright in my eyes. I groan, not wanting to get up. This – this _day_ is just so terrible, it makes me want to… Well, honestly, I don't know what it makes me want to do. I just can't even fathom how terrible it must be. How terrible it must be to wake up on this day and feel the paralyzing terror that your child might be next. That their name will be drawn from the glass ball and that they will enter the arena, just as you did before.

I feel the terror too, but I'm not as worried as my parents. My poor mother, who still wakes up screaming from her time in the Hunger Games. Annie Cresta, famed victor gone mad, married to Capitol favorite Finnick Odair. I am their only child, the only thing my mother could bear to hold. They fear for my life - I see it in their eyes when they think I'm not looking. I understand their fear, but I don't share it. Five names, five tiny slips of paper out of thousands. There is no chance.

I stretch, and roll out of bed. Wandering downstairs, I stop just before I reach the landing. My parents' voices are loud against the quiet dawn. "Nothing will happen, Annie. I promise you, nothing will happen. It's one out of a billion. Nothing will happen." The same reasons every year. The same panic that has gripped their hearts since I turned twelve. At sixteen, I now have five entries in the Reaping. Just five small chances to be picked.

Laughing at myself, I take the last few steps down the stairs and break the silence that has fallen over the kitchen. "Morning!" I say brightly. My parents just look at me. Mom covers her ears with her hands, rocking back and forth slightly. As my father comforts her, I begin to make breakfast.

"You should go get ready." My father's voice startles me.

"What?"

"Go get ready," he repeats. "For… the Reaping," he says cautiously.

"Oh. Okay, I guess." I give my dad a tight smile and then head upstairs.

Responding to the knock at the door, I bound down the stairs and land gracefully a few feet away from the last step. I dash to the front door, not at all surprised to see Jayliss standing before me. "You ready or what?" She tugs my wrist gently, not hard enough to move me, but hard enough for me to get the idea.

"Hold on, Jay. Gimme a sec." To my parents, I yell, "Mom! Dad! I'm going now with Jay. I'll meet you afterwards in the square. Love you!" I let Jayliss drag me out of my own house now, laughing with her as she leads me towards the square.

We stand together in the pen for our age group, sucking drops of blood of our fingertips.I smooth my dress, a plain white scoopneck with a sea-green sash across the waist. As the last stragglers file in, our escort strides smoothly to the middle of the stage. The two glass balls seem stately and traditional, a symbol of the Hunger Games that can never be forgotten. After a "special" video, we wait expectantly as our mayor gives his speech, gesturing to the old victors (including my parents) when they are mentioned. Finally. _Finally,_ the Reaping begins.

"Ladies first!" Our brightly-dressed escort pipes. And the female tribute from District Four is…" she pauses, and then carefully opens the paper."Fara Odair!" A silence falls over the crowd. This is where someone would normally volunteer, but nobody seems too willing. A scream rips across the square. I look up to see my mother, her eyes wide with panic. She screams once more and then dissolves into sobs as she presses her face against my father's shoulder. It shakes me out of my trance, and I stumble up to the stage. "Well, this _is_ a surprise, isn't it? The child of two previous victors has now been selected for the Hunger Games. How wonderful!" _Selected. As if we have a choice._ "And now, the male tribute." The crowd's energy doesn't seem as high as it was before, but the escort continues as if we are just as excited. "This year's male tribute of District Four is Jackson Hughes."

Just as the last syllable has flown from her painted lips, a boy's voice from the crowd calls, "I volunteer!" So predictable, but so comforting at the same time. The same routine, over and over. One person is reaped, another never lets them get the chance.

"Excellent! A volunteer." The escort smiles at the boy. "And you are?"

"Ernest Howard," he says. He looks confident, cocky. Just the kind of person I hate. I hate the people that volunteer, that think that the Hunger Games are good, that they will bring you eternal glory instead of eternal fear. I know just what the Games can do to a person, and people that revel in the murdering just make me sick.

"Shake hands now," the escort prompts. This _Ernest_ sticks his hand out of me. Gingerly, I take his large paw in my own small hand and shake once. I drop my arm back to my side, and walk through the doors at the back of the stage before the Peacekeepers try to shove us through.

When we are assigned our little rooms for saying goodbye, I just sit and stare at the wall. The door bursts open, but I don't turn to look. My father's arms wrap around my shoulders. "It'll be fine, Fara. It'll be fine. You're strong, you can do this. It'll be fine. He walks in front of me, so that I'm forced to face him. Look at me," he commands. "You can do this, okay? Be strong. You can win this. Mom and I will be there during training. We're mentors; we can teach you how the Games work. You'll be okay. You're going to come home, Fara. I promise." He hugs me once more, and I look into his eyes just briefly enough to see how much panic he's holding back.

"Okay," I whisper. He stands, and walks away before his allotted minutes are up.

After a few brief moments of solitude, the door opens again, this time bearing Jayliss. "Oh," she whispers. "Oh. Oh. Oh." That's all she can say. "Oh, beat those other guys, you hear?" I nod silently. Jay doesn't say anything else, just sits with me for the rest of her time. When the Peacekeepers come, she stands, then turns around one last time. "And Fara? Good luck, okay?" She walks out.

The train moves faster than I would like, but there's nothing I can do about it. The mentors try to talk to me, but I ignore them. The only ones who don't push anything are my parents. They know that if I don't want to talk I won't. I cross my arms and look sullenly out the window as Districts Three, Two, and One speed past. In less than a day, we've reached the Capitol, and all their freaks come running to meet the train.

Ernest waves to them from the window, apparently trying to make new friends. I continue to sit and stare at a wall as the train pulls into the station and then drags to a halt. As we are unloaded, I walk stiffly past the many cameras and stare straight ahead. My normally outgoing personality is not shared with these people. I will not give them a smile or acknowledge them at all. They don't deserve it.

As I am made up by the prep team, I refuse to talk. I don't respond to their questions. I don't even look at them. I follow directions if they are given, tilting my head to a different angle or holding out my arm, but I do not speak. I will not. These people are pawns to the Capitol, playing along in their silly game. The game of murder, where twenty-four are drafted and only one remains standing. _A Victor,_ they call him. A Victor to be honored. The only thing a Victor truly gets are nightmares. Nightmares and secrets. I will not allow myself to be just one more piece on their chessboard. They cannot make me do anything. I will show them just how powerful one person can truly be. I will defeat their Games. There will be no Victor.

I sit in on the cold table, waiting for my stylist. The makeup I've already been covered in makes me feel fake. I jump as a man walks in carrying a garment bag who seems vaguely familiar. _Oh, that's right._ He was the District Twelve stylist a few years back. After his incredibly successful flame costumes three years back, he was promoted to District Seven. There, he dressed them in leafy outfits that seemed to float and wave like the branches of a tree. The next year, he was again promoted to District Five. There he made the tributes into glowing displays. There are really no words to describe the moving, pulsing colors that engulfed the tributes of the energy district. It truly seemed like they were made of pure energy, just like it is when it flows down the power lines and into our homes.

This year, they bumped him up to District Four. I'm surprised they didn't promote him to One or Two, considering how popular his designs are. I suppose they want to reserve those very to spots for the old reliables. If he does as well this year as he did in the years prior, he'll get moved up there for sure.

"So, you're the tribute everyone's talking about. Well look, I know I can't help with the Games themselves, but I'll do everything I can to help you out before they start." I find myself immediately smiling. Cinna isn't like the other stylists. Practically untouched by the Capitol's odd fashions, not to mention kind and charismatic, he's one of the nicest people I've ever met and he's only gotten two sentences out. "Tonight we present you to the world, right?"

"Right," I respond, the first word I've said since I got on the train.

"Exactly, so I have an idea that's going to blow them out of the water."

"Ha ha, very funny."

Ignoring my sarcasm, Cinna continues. "I was thinking that instead of focusing on the fish or putting you in some tiny little getup that covers virtually nothing, we would focus on the water."

"What do you mean?" I'm not quite sure I like where this is going.

"You'll see. Just watch." With a flourish, he pulls a dress out of the garment bag he's been carrying. _Dress_ doesn't even describe it. It flows and shimmers just like water, reflecting just enough to be interesting, but not so much that it looks invisible compared to what it's reflecting. Blue fades into silver, which fades into grays and greens and so many other colors I can't even describe it. It looks like _water_, glimmering and glistening in the harsh overhead fluorescents. "Now _this_ is how you win sponsors. You'll look gorgeous. Come here." I slip down from the table, unwinding the thin robe from around my slight frame. With practiced movements, Cinna slips the dress over my head, adjusting it as it falls around my hips and calves. I stare at myself in the mirror, not believing what I see.

A strapless gown moves in rippling waves as I turn to look from every angle. It comes in and then gently flares back out at the hips, falling gracefully down to my mid-calves. My strawberry blonde hair is loose around my shoulders, but the front is expertly pulled back to allow my face to be seen. I look back at Cinna, who is smiling softly at his work. "Not bad. Not bad at all." He steps forward and takes my hands in his. "You look radiant. Just a few more touches." Shoes are produced, sandals woven from some kind of metallic cloth. Then a small tiara is placed on my head, the silver swirls complimenting the sandals without offsetting the balance of silver to the other shimmering colors in the dress.

I gaze at myself one last time in the mirror, and then turn and follow Cinna out of the room. Once in the pre-parade area, I stroke the horses' noses absently, lost in thought. I don't even see my father come up behind me until a loud crunch startles me out of my dreamland. "Sugar cube?" he asks with one of those trademark smiles that everyone in the Capitol goes nuts for. "You look fantastic, by the way."

"Thanks. For both." I take a sugar cube from his outstretched palm.

"No problem." An attendant notifies us that the Tribute Parade will begin in sixty seconds. "Good luck out there, Fara."

I smile grimly, and then step into the chariot. Next to me, Ernest tugs at his shirt. His getup is similar to mine. However, instead of all shimmering water cloth, he's dressed in more of a net than an outfit. The water is present, shining underneath the net that's wrapped around his waist. It twists upwards to tie over his shoulder, giving him the appearance of a fishing net sliding through the ocean. At thirty seconds, Cinna rushes up, somehow still managing to maintain a calm demeanor. "Almost forgot to give you this." He drapes a silver net like the one Ernest has around my shoulders. "There. Now go get 'em." He smiles softly, and steps back as the first chariot begins to move forward.

I watch the screens as District One's chariot glides smoothly across the pavilion. The two tributes are dressed in matching jeweled outfits. A golden dress on the girl and a matching kilt-type thing on the boy, studded with multicolored faux gems. Elaborate headdresses twist up from their skulls, also covered in rubies and emeralds and amethysts. They look good, but it's a little over-the-top for my tastes.

District Two rolls out, bearing two tributes in gray outfits, representing the stone they work with in the masonry district. The costumes are stupid, depicting gray rock embroidered with hammers and chisels.

Next comes District Three, adorned in blinking lights and wires to show the electronics they work with. They look interesting, if nothing else, but they seem to be trying too hard. However, the flashing lights sure get people's attention.

And then us. District Four. Our horses trot out, and we capture the attention of all as soon as one person lays eyes on us. Our ocean outfits shimmer with the movement of the chariot, and I can feel the eyes on us. I smile wider, glancing at the people in the stands. We are the stars of the show. The ingenious works of Cinna have struck again, giving us a moment to outshine all the other tributes. I don't care about it, even if Ernest does, but it is fun to have everyone watching you and know that you can do so much to win their affection and then just rip it away again. Capitol viewers are so easily persuaded, so easily tricked into thinking that all Career tributes are vicious, that we all volunteered for this.

No districts after us are noticed, but in my peripheral vision I make out gears from Six; the travel district, golden stalks of wheat from Nine; the grain district, some sort of coal-miner's outfit where the headlamp glistens with fake fire as the new stylists try to rip off Cinna's popular designs in Twelve.

As our chariot glides to a stop in front of the raised podium, I glance at Ernest. He grins with a foolish sort of look on his face, like a child who has been given candy for no good reason. I want to hit him, but I decide not to spoil his fun. After the last tributes roll up, President Snow, the old snake, steps up to the podium. "Tributes," he begins, "welcome to the Seventy-Seventh Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Capitol - **_**the first day of tribute training**_

Training. I knew it was coming, but I didn't really think about it until now. I glance to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of the time from the clock on my bedside table. Then I remember: my clock is at home, and I'm in a Capitol bed. With nothing else to do, I swing my legs over the side of the plush bed and stand, rubbing my hair into more of a knotted mess than it already is. Stumbling a little as sleep tries to take me again, I make my way into the dining room.

All the mentors are sitting around the table when I come in, but conversation stops as soon as they see my face. "Hi." I wave a little, suddenly a little embarrassed by my messed-up hair.

The silence continues for a full count of five until my dad breaks the tension in the air. "Morning, sweetheart." He smiles at me gently. "Have a seat." I notice two empty chairs to his right, and slip into the one closest to him.

The escort, whose name I found out is Tesla, begins to speak so quickly I don't catch half of what she's saying. I clearly have a spectacular look on my face, because most of the mentors begin to crack up. Tesla slows down just a little. "As I was saying, today you will begin training for the Games. The Gamemakers will observe you, but remember to keep your special skills to yourself until you go in for personal evaluation and training scores."

"Special skills? I don't have any special skills." _Now_ I'm worried.

"What?" Tesla shrieks. "You never taught her anything? What is _wrong_ with you?" Her face turns bright red as she turns to accuse my father.

"Now wait just a second. I've taught her things," Dad argues.

"Really? Like what?" Tesla is getting redder by the second. I swear, she's going to explode soon if she doesn't cool it.

"She can fish. She can work with nets and tridents." I nod to myself. All of that is true, but catching fish is different from killing people. I was enrolled in the training academy (against my parents' will), and I'm pretty good with most weapons, but I don't have anything special. Physical combat isn't really my forte. I'm small, so I don't exactly have any advantage, unless the people I'm fighting with are twelve and untrained.

"Can she work with a _sword_ or a _knife_, perhaps? She's killing other tributes - _t__rained_ tributes, I might add - not spearing fish for dinner! Honestly, Finnick. I thought you would have taught her _something_, or at the very least enrolled her in a training academy."

"I was in a training academy. And I can work with knives and swords both, I'm just not especially good with anything in particular." I look at Tesla in all her Capitol glory. "I can work with weapons, but I'm small. Physical fighting isn't really my thing."

"Oh, well isn't that useful. The child of two victors doesn't like to fight. How perfect. They'll just love that in the interviews, now won't they?" Tesla's sarcasm is a little over-the-top, in my opinion, but I decide to keep my mouth closed.

The days fly by quicker than I would have imagined, and before I can comprehend it, it's the day of the tribute evaluation. Ernest and I are the second group to arrive in the training area for private assessment. The other two tributes are from One. I remember that their names are Jade and Airion, two giant eighteen-year-olds with wicked glints in their eyes. As the other tributes begin to file in, I hope that my recently discovered skills will be enough to save me.

I glance over at Airion, the wolf. He raises his eyebrows at me when he catches my gaze and smiles – baring his teeth – in my direction. He really is a beast, I swear it. The wild look in his eyes, the way he smiles. His hair is a shaggy blonde, but in the fluorescent lighting, it looks silver. He's tall and lean, stepping like a wolf. He crouches on long limbs, as if testing the waters before he calls the rest of the pack in. He seems loyal enough, but kind of unpredictable at the same time, like he is willing to abandon one of his allies if it ensures his own survival.

A mechanical voice jolts from the speakers. "District One. Airion Torrence." The door slides open, and the Wolf lopes into the training room. After only about five minutes, Jade is called in. One by one, the tributes file in. As Ernest enters for his evaluation, my hands begin to tap random patterns on my leg. My name slides from the speakers, and I stand. To throw off other competitors, I act cocky, grinning like I know I'll make a twelve.

The Gamemakers stare at me as they eat, ready to see what the Victors' daughter has to offer. I stand in the middle of the room, and then drag a mat over to my place. I lean forward, about to fall. I let my weight tug me down as I flip into a somersault on the mat, standing, and then grabbing the nearest weapon - a sword – I slash a dummy to bits. With sword still in hand, I tuck and roll again, landing next to the climbing wall.

I scamper up the wall one handed, and then leap onto a nearby ladder, easily maintaining my balance while keeping hold of the sword. I skip down the ladder, purposefully missing rungs. When I hit the ground, my chest rises and falls fast. I look up, and notice the netting at the top of the ceiling. _Change of plans, folks._ I dash over to a cart covered in spears. It's one of the taller ones, to accommodate for longer weapons. I swing myself onto the cart, balancing on the bars used to keep the spears in place. I jump, grabbing for the netting. My fingers wrap around it, thick and coarse straps holding me aloft. I pull myself into a chin-up, then shimmy through the large spaces between the strips of cloth. I pull myself upright. I am now eye-to-eye with the Gamemakers lounging on the balcony.

They seem surprised I am this agile. I stare at them directly in the face. I don't speak, just look at them. I lower myself back through the netting and drop onto the floor, somersaulting again as I hit the ground. The impact of my boots on the linoleum causes a hollow thud to echo through the vast room. Then it is silent. I stand in the middle of the room once again, allowing them gaze at me. Eventually, the Head Gamemaker nods, the signal that I have been dismissed. Silently, I exit the room.

"And now, folks, the moment we've all been waiting for - the training scores!" Caesar Flickerman announces in his booming voice. This year, he's decided on a maroon theme, and his dark red lips gives him the appearance of a vampire. "From District One, Airion Torrence with a score of… nine. Also from District One, Miss Jade Radford with a score of ten. From District Two …" Caesar goes on, and I don't really listen until I notice our District's number sounding from the television set. "District Four's Ernest Howard earned a score of eight." Pretty good. I almost wonder what he did. "And Fara Odair, with a training score of… nine." I grin. Maybe I do have a chance at this. Or maybe the Gamemakers are just trying to goad the others into killing me first.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Caesar Flickerman says, "please help me welcome, from District Four, the daughter of the victors - Fara Odair!" I glance one last time at my father, and then begin across the stage. My dress shimmers under the lights, catching the audience's attention before I even reach Caesar. "Well, Fara, as much as I would love to start this out by talking about you, we just have to talk about those dresses. As I recall, Cinna is your stylist?"

"Yes," I respond shortly.

"Well, you're a very lucky girl. Your outfit for the parade was just stunning," he reminds me, mentioning the dress I had worn just a few days previously. "This, however, is gorgeous. Honestly, how does he do it?"

I give a slight, uninterested laugh. "I honestly have no idea It's gorgeous, right? I try not to think about it, and mostly concentrate on not tripping over my own feet." The way I have answered this question, I am deterring any attempts at showing serious emotion. The audience doesn't notice though - they love it, and I can hear them chortle good-naturedly. I glance down at my dress. This one isn't blue, but silver. Small diamonds ring the neckline and dot the fabric in multiple places. The light catches the glimmering jewels and makes me appear to be glowing. The dress shifts and shimmers, lighting up the room when I move. It almost looks like pure starlight.

I wasn't lying when I said it was pretty. There is no doubt in my mind that I will be the center of attention tonight.

Caesar and I go on to talk about a few things, the Games, my clothes, how I feel about my parents also being in the Games. For the last one, I made something cheesy and clichéd up about loving that I have the rare opportunity to follow the path they also walked.

And then the _touchy_ subjects come up. And not just the ones that I have to avoid saying anything against the Capitol, but the ones that are more personal than anything. "So Fara, I bet the boys back home are just falling over each other to get to you, right?"

"Not quite, Caesar. I'm not exactly that kind of person. Mostly they just ignore me."

"Oh, that can't be true. But anyway, how about the boys _you're_ into. Anybody you've got your eye on?"

"Not really. I'm not really into dating. Or at least, that's what I tell my dad." That gets a laugh out of the Capitol people.

"Oh come on, Fara. You can trust us." Somehow, those four words seem to echo in my head. Without realizing it, I stand.

My voice is quiet, but it rolls across the studio.

"Can I?"

**Okay! Remember, folks: I have an SYOT going on my page (Ma6ic-Un1c0rn) and I REALLY need some submissions. Just shoot me a PM if you want to reserve a spot or don't have time to fill out the form now. Also, please review. I have gotten exactly one review and it was from a guest. PLEASE review and make me happy. Even if you are judgy about my writing, please review. **

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	3. Chapter 3

_**The morning of the Games**_

I finger the cloth gently, soft cotton sliding between my fingers. "Do the clothes tell you anything about the arena?" I ask Cinna.

"No. Nothing. There's nothing indicating it will be hot or cold or wet or dry or anything. I'm sorry, Fara."

My heart drops. "It's fine. I like surprises anyway," I lie. I look down at the outfit I will be wearing to my death - sorry, to the _arena_. Like there's a difference. I sigh, and sit to wait until I am called into the tube that will lift me up into the arena. I decide to remember everyone I've ever known, to have them fresh in my mind to strengthen me as I enter the Hunger Games.

My father, a Victor at fourteen. He was forced to be with Capitol women who paid with secrets, made to share intimacy with those he didn't love. Who he did love was the other Victor back home, a girl gone crazy. His last words to me still ring in my ears. _You can win, Fara. I won, and your mother won. It's in your blood. You can win. Show them that the Games can't hurt you. Show them who you really are._

My mother, who won because she could swim. Who went insane after witnessing the beheading of the tribute from her district. Who found safety in the Capitol's favorite champion.

Jayliss Erwin, my best friend. The strange, upbeat girl I splashed in the water with as a young child. I know everything about her. Her favorite color is bright pink - the color of the hair bows the little girls wear, and the color of the geraniums and roses that grow by the houses in the Victor's Village. The one person who I found bearable, the others too impressed, jealous, or spiteful of me to be my friend.

The three people in my life I could care about. Just three.

No, four. I can't forget about Cormac Haldrose.

Cormac. I've never known quite what he was to me. Sometimes, he's just a friend - the boy down the street that makes me laugh. Other times, though, he's just as immature as the rest of the boys I know. But there are other times still that I feel something more. That I feel a strange sort of attraction to him, because I love how he makes me laugh, because I hate his boyish attitude. I don't know what to think when I catch him staring at me. When he catches me. The way he grins when I do something stupid, and the way he tries to play it cool when he does something even more stupid. It hurts to think I'll never see him again.

Because I know I won't. I won't win. I don't really want to. I don't need glory or money or having my life story broadcasted on live television. Don't get me wrong, though: I'm going to cause as much damage as possible before I go.  
People are going to die under my hand.

###

"Are you ready, Fara?" Cinna asks.

"Not really, but ready enough." I clutch my token tightly. The surface of the small ball is slick with the clammy sweat that has dripped from my hands. I look at it one last time: the key to a _really_ interesting bloodbath. It seems so innocent, and yet its true value is crystal clear.

A mechanized voice reminds me that I have limited time to enter the clear tube waiting for me. I flash Cinna one last smile, and then step onto the platform. I am sealed off from him, and feel myself begin to rise. I turn my face towards the approaching sun, ready to quickly interpret whatever the arena may be.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. The remains of a city sit in front of me, undisturbed, it seems, for years. Crumbling remains of skyscrapers are scattered around decimated concrete streets. Old cars sit unmoving on the pavement, and a few birds circle overhead. The voice of Claudius Templesmith booms through the strange arena, beginning the countdown. I listen carefully to the numbers, waiting for the right time. My plan is risky, but if I time it right, it could work.

As the clock hits a number around the middle of the countdown, I locate who I think my biggest issue might be: Jade Radford. I spot her on the other side of the semicircle, next to a boy who I think is from District Eight. He probably won't last long, anyway. Before I can convince myself not to, I pull the ball from my pocket, and throw it hard at the base of Jade's pedestal. It bounces away just as the explosion goes off. The tributes stare open-mouthed at the gory remains scattered around them. Some wipe fleshy bits off their faces, grimacing in disgust. The ball is bouncy, though, and it keeps going, fueled by the blast that Jade's pedestal sent.

It skips across Eight's, saving him from an earlier death than he would have had, and hits the girl next to him - Tasmin, I think - from Three. She screams as the ball hits the mine, but is cut off as the explosion shakes our pedestals. The ball is still bouncing, managing to slip away in the split second before the blast. Now it jumps to District Eleven's male tribute: Killian. He sees the ball coming before it hits, and looks at me with despair as it jumps towards him. I close my eyes as he bursts into pieces. The ball is heading this way, but the countdown is almost over. I look to the sky and tick down the seconds with the clock as explosions riddle the air.

Finally, Templesmith utters the words I've been waiting for. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Seventh Annual Hunger Games begin!" The mines are now inactive, and I run before any of the other tributes can catch me. Most are still stunned from my act, so I use my advantage to run to the Cornucopia and snag a few backpacks from the mouth where the best supplies lay. On a whim, I grab a knife from a nearby rack, and then set off running towards the crumbling buildings. The others have begun to run towards the Cornucopia, so I don't waste any time getting out. They clearly see me as a threat now, if they didn't before, and I don't want to take any chances.

I feel a knife whiz past my ear, and I duck instinctively. It flies past my head and lodges itself in an old wooden pole tilting out of the ground. I dash into a crumbling building nearby. I look back at the boy that threw the knife and grin, waving the knife around.

Oh, yes, let the Hunger Games begin.

**This one is a little bit of a shorter chapter, I know. Chapter Four to come soon. Also: SYOT on my profile, people! I have **_**no**_** submissions yet. Come on! Please review and submit tributes. For more info, check out my page.**

**Thanks for reading!**

** Ma6ic-Un1c0rn**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Two Days into the 77th Annual Hunger Games**_

My stomach growls at me, reminding me that the day must begin and I must find food. _Today is the second day of the Hunger Games_, I think to myself. Slowly, I sit up, and begin to rummage through the bags I grabbed yesterday. They are splattered with bits of dried blood and flesh from the stunt I pulled at the Bloodbath yesterday. The first day was so hectic that I haven't had time to analyze what I got from the Cornucopia.

I unzip the first bag, gray and flexible. It's fairly large, but doesn't appear to be completely full. I reach inside and pull the contents out one by one.

A steel water container, half full.

A box of matches.

A gray blanket, not overly fluffy or warm, but certainly useful. It will save me from many cold nights.

Satisfied with the items, I set them aside and begin with the next bag. This one is smaller, only about the size of a loaf of bread, and bright blue. I unzip it, and begin to see what I've gotten.

A long knife, curved and sharp, cruel in the dim dawn light.

A bottle of iodine to purify any water I should find.

An apple, red and shining.

Another, smaller water bottle, this time empty.

Only one bag remains, the black one slightly smaller than the first. Silver zippers glint in the early rays of sun that pierce the tattered remains of a roof under which I sit. It looks dangerous, ominous, somehow. Cautiously, I open it.

Another knife, this one smaller, more like a paring knife.

A loaf of bread made of coarse gray grain.

A spray bottle of something. It smells strange and sharp, not like anything I've ever seen. I spray a puff into the air, and nothing seems to happen, but the sharp scent spreads. I wrinkle my nose

A length of rope, coiled into a loop.

A strange metal device with three hooked pieces branching off from the same center point. I think I've seen one on the Games before. A grappling hook, I'm pretty sure it's called. You throw it, and it hooks on something, and then you can use it to pull yourself up. Or it can be a weapon. The hooks look sharp, if not deadly. I could do some major damage to someone with that.

Excellent. I have supplies. Good supplies. I'll at least last long enough to kill off most of my opponents, and then I'll die. I don't want to win. I don't want to see the looks the people in the Capitol give me, the looks of wonder and adoration because I murdered people. Innocent people. I can't stand that, and I won't.

I'll make my mark in these Games, make people root for me, and then let myself die. My father will be devastated, but he'll survive for the sake of my mother. My mother will just retreat further into her little world, blocking out more of reality. But she'll be okay because she'll have my father. Jayliss will cry, she'll sob, but she has other friends. She'll have the support of everyone at school. They all knew me, albeit not well, but they know Jayliss, and she'll have people to go to.

Cormac, though, I don't know. He knows me so well, and he'll be upset that I'm gone. What I don't know is how he'll react after the grieving period. Will he suck it up and go on with daily life? Will he just forget about me? Or will he be truly gone, crushed at my death? I still don't know what he is to me, so what am I to him?

###

The bird gives one last attempt to struggle away as I wrap my hands around his fragile neck. I give a sharp twist, cringing at the smooth crack of bones, and the bird falls limp in my hands. I didn't want to kill him, but he was food, and I'm hungry.

I retreat back into my little corner of the building, preparing to build a small fire. It's foggy and overcast today, so the smoke shouldn't be noticed. I look at the matches, and then put them back in the bag. I can make a decent fire, and I shouldn't waste precious things if I don't need them.

I pull out the paring knife from the makeshift sheath I made from leaves, old tar in the road, and strands of my hair. It's not pretty, but it's effective, and I keep the sheath strapped to my left forearm, in case I have to grab the knife with my teeth. Examining the knife, I realize I should clean it before I use it to skin the bird. I can't waste water, and water is only good if you have soap. Instead, I place the knife a few centimeters above the coals, already warming enough to shoot a few sparks into the air. I slide the knife back and forth in the small fire, purifying it that way. After a couple of seconds, I'm satisfied, so I pull it out and blow on it to cool it.

After butchering the bird, I skewer it and prop it up on two forked sticks I drove into the ground on either side of the fire. I wait, watching the flames lick the meat from below, turning it slowly. This would be better with salt, but I'm not exactly seeing any, so I take it off the fire and eat it hot so I can't taste it. The fowl was small, so I eat it all before I'm full.

I put out the fire, kicking dirt over the coals. It's time to move, so I check that all of my supplies are in the biggest bag, cover my footprints and my fire, and move out.

I sneak slowly around the corners of the ruined buildings. The fog from earlier has begun to burn off in the daylight, so I move carefully. I dodge pieces of wood and stone that have fallen from the dead city around me. I've just stepped over a large slab of concrete, when I see him.

Cormac Haldrose.

He's here, in front of me. My head feels fuzzy, and the world is tilting slowly. It rolls to the left, and then back to the right, moving up and down like a seesaw. Cormac smiles at me, and then reaches out a hand as if to steady me. I know he can't be real, but some part of my brain has put me on autopilot, and I extend my hand to grab his.

He pulls back at the last second, though, and I hit the ground. My head swirls, and the ground has started pitching faster. I look up at him, hurt that he would let me fall. I stand, finding my balance slowly among the tilting world. Cormac grins at me, and blood dribbles from his lips. I scream, staring at the gory scene.

He looks at me once more, still grinning a bloody smile, and then vanishes. I scream again. I don't know what happened. I'm scared and shaken, but I start to move forward again. I've turned a corner when I spot Airion. I know I can't beat him, so I retreat around the corner. I'm still woozy from whatever came over me earlier, so I don't see the branch behind me. I trip over it, and fall backwards, scraping my hands as I catch myself. The broken tree limb cracks as I fall on it. Airion turns quickly, jumping into a low fighting stance as he does.

He looks at me, and our eyes meet. He pulls his gaze from my face to the rest of me. I watch carefully as he swiftly assesses me. He takes in the backpack, the scared expression, the slow-moving fingers. He rises from his position and strides over to me. I cower, keeping my head down to possibly avoid damage.

But Airion doesn't attack. He offers a hand, just like Cormac did. "You inhaled the fog, didn't you?"

_What is he talking about? What fog? Wait, where am I? Who is he? _My mind is too jumbled to form a clear response. All I can say is, "Fog?"

"Yeah, the fog. When I woke up, it was starting to form, and when I looked at it, it was too uniform and perfect to be real mist. It started to make my head go funny, so I covered my face with the jacket until it was over. You didn't, did you?" Airion stops waiting for me to take his hand, and instead grabs my wrist and easily pulls me to my feet. My knees buckle, and he catches me before I fall. He scoops me into his arms and carries me over to his camp underneath a slanting roof. "You should be fine. I think. I don't really know how the stuff works. How about we ally up? You got a pretty good training score, and that thing with the ball was incredible. I could use someone smart like you on my side. How about it?"

After Airion sets me down, I look up at him in my drugged stupor. Most of his words didn't register, but I know he wants to ally. I wasn't planning on allies, but Airion would be good. I could use a wolf. "Allies," I agree, before slumping into unconsciousness.

**There was a longer chapter to make up for short Chapter 3. Thanks to The Periodic Table of Converse for the bouncy ball idea (I forgot to mention that in the last chapter). The SYOT is still open with lots of slots. Also, I only have one review so far, but I know people are reading this. Please review! It makes me happy, and I want to know what people think of my writing. Positive or negative, please review. Don't forget to SYOT! (See my page for more details)**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Three Days into the 77th Annual Hunger Games**_

I blink awake, sitting up slowly in the unfamiliar surroundings. A large gray tarp is propped up over me, held in place by sticks and rocks, that covers the obvious holes in the ruined ceiling. I look around, reaching for the knife strapped to my forearm should I have to fight.

"No, no. None of that. I have your little knives right here… Fara, isn't it?" Airion's voice is surprisingly light. I would have expected more of a low growl from the Wolf, but his tone is actually rather bright.

My head snapped up towards Airion. "I - why didn't you kill me?" I'm surprised by what I said; I had intended something along the lines of, _ How did I get here? What happened? Why did I see my sort-of boyfriend in a hallucination that I'm not even sure was a hallucination?_

"Well, you got a pretty good score, and you seem pretty cute. I figured that, coming from Four, and your dad and all - you'll have some pretty good skills. I'm sure you'd be a pretty good ally. Like I said, you're cute, and I'd like to get to know you better anyway."

"So the only reason you're allying with me is because you think I'm _cute?_" I jump to my feet in indignation.

"Well, not the _only_ reason, but certainly one of them. Besides, you looked so innocent all small and asleep. I couldn't kill you - you reminded me too much of my little sister." Airion's voice lowers. I hadn't ever thought of him to be one to open up and reveal his personal life. Actually, he looks rather embarrassed that he said anything at all.

"Alright. Allies then." I stick out my hand towards Airion, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

He takes it, and looks at me gratefully for the change of subject. "So if we're going to be allies, we should probably take inventory and pool supplies, right?" He looks at me expectantly. I realize he's asking a real question, not a rhetorical one, so I decide to go ahead and take charge.

"Right," I say, thinking back to the lessons my father gave me on allies. He said to know what the other person had, and split food equally, but to keep weapons and other supplies that you came into the relationship with on your person in case something should cause the alliance to split.

Airion pulls out a fairly small bag from behind a nearby slab of concrete. He unzips it, and begins to narrate what he pulls out. "I only managed to grab one bag during the Bloodbath, but I got some pretty good stuff out of it." He pulls out a few items, and as soon as I see them, I know that he's definitely somebody to watch out for. "A couple of knives," Airion says as he tugs three wicked-looking knives from the bag. The first is long and curved, and I have no doubt in my mind that it couldn't gut me like a fish. The second is serrated and sharp, covered in jagged points that taper to terrible barbs. The final knife is more like a short sword. It's longer than the first one, the blade honed to a keen edge. It actually makes me shudder a little, but the fact that he has it makes me both eager to be allies with him, but wary of getting that thing in my back if I'm not careful.

"I also got some food out of this one." Airion shows me three apples, a loaf of hard-crusted bread, and a water bottle. He sees the excited gleam in my eye when I spot the water bottle, but Airion brings that to a halt when he says, "There's nothing in it. This is all I got, too. Not even anything to purify the water. But if you count out the one thing that will most likely kill me, it's a pretty good bag, right?"

"Oh, yeah," I respond sarcastically. "Well, lucky for you, I have iodine in one of the bags I grabbed. And a full water bottle, too. We should be okay until we find a water source, if we hurry."

"Wow. You know, that trick you pulled with the ball was pretty good," he said, looking down at his hands. I wonder what he's thinking about, and then I remember that I killed his district partner.

"I'm sorry about Jade." Airion doesn't meet my eyes as I say this. I have no right to be disappointed at this, considering I probably killed somebody he cared about, but I still am as I sit next to him.

"It's not a big deal," he says. "She was a threat. You took her out." Something in Airion's voice makes me look up at him. When he finally locks eyes with me, it is in that moment that I know he loved her. I killed the girl he loved. I look at him, and then conjure up a mental picture of Jade.

"Were you related to Jade?" I ask suddenly, surprising even myself.

"How did you know? She was my half-sister," he explains. "Same mom, different dad."

"Oh. I'm sorry." I feel stupid saying something so trivial, such empty words, but what else can I say?

"This is the Hunger Games, right? Everyone for themselves," the Wolf says, giving a breathy laugh that sounds a little bit more like a choked sob. "I have to get over it; I can't seem weak. The whole world is watching. But I -" He breaks off, staring over my shoulder with his eyes wide. "Run!" he screams, and I do.

**Sorry for the cliffhanger. Sort of. Anyway, remember to please review and check out my page for SYOT details if you're interested. The open slots are listed on my profile. PM if you would like to reserve a tribute or anything. Chapter Six will come soon-ish. SYOT! (And reviews, those are good too)**


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: Sorry for the late update, I've been really busy. Also, I had no ideas. But now I have ideas, and I think this one is pretty good, so enjoy!_

_**Three Days into the Hunger Games**_

My feet pound the earth, churning up a layer of dust and dirt that has accumulated over the years. Airion sprints a little ways ahead of my, his longer legs working to his advantage. He turns to look at the imposing figure chasing us, but then spots me as I struggle to keep up with him. He slows a little, and then grabs my arm and tugs me along. I don't know what's chasing us, and I don't want to know.

I feel something whistle past my neck, slicing off a few strands of hair that have come loose from my ponytail. A short sword, or perhaps a long knife, embeds itself in a nearby piece of wood that used to be some sort of sign, I think. A tribute, then. Animals and mutts don't throw weapons. I'm a little bit relieved, until I remember the hulking figure that was, unfortunately, not in the five deaths I caused with my ball. District Two. Both tributes. I can make out the individual footfalls if I listen for it.

_Think, Fara, think! Who were they? What did they say in the interviews? Did they let on any weaknesses?_ Then it hits me. Rowik and Aurella. The hulking beasts that both claimed in their interviews that they planned to tear everyone they could apart and make them suffer as they died. And now they were targeting us.

Airion is pulling on my wrist, practically begging me to run faster, but I can't. I have short legs, and this is how fast I can run. Suddenly my scalp burns and I'm yanked down from behind. I look up to see Rowik, with his meaty fist wrapped around my ponytail and a malicious grin tacked on his immense face. Aurella stands above me, and then crouches to my level, her face as serious as death. There's something in her eyes that makes me shudder, and it's certainly not mercy or sorrow.

It's glee.

She may look outwardly composed, but she takes great joy in watching me wriggle under her district partner's hands. She holds up a long knife, similar to the one that flew by my head. I shift, trying to tug the knife strapped to my arm out without letting them know that's what I'm doing. Aurella is too smart, though. She spots the leaves and the tips of the hilt and blade sticking out, and quickly cuts the strands of hair and sap holding the sheath together. A something warm pool in my hand as a sharp burst of pain shoots through my forearm. She cut part of my skin off as she did that, and I can feel the wound sting as the wind gently touches it. "I'll have none of that," she whispers to me as she strokes my face with the flat of her blade. "What shall we start with, Rowik? I say we leave the face for last, so that her pretty little victor parents can see it all as we tear off her arms and rip open her chest. But what to start with? How about a hand?" She gives a short, joyful laugh as she traces the fingers on my left hand with her knife.

"Are you gonna beg, little girl? Are you gonna beg for your mommy and your daddy? Because they can't help you now. You're all alone. Even your _'ally'_ has run off." Aurella gives another laugh, spitting out the word "ally." But until she said it, I had assumed that Airion was hiding somewhere, planning a rescue. Rowik loosens his grasp for a moment, and I whip my head around, looking for the Wolf. He's gone. He abandoned me. My eyes fill with tears as the hulking male from District Two pulls my hair back again. "Get ready, little girl. Fara, wasn't it? Well get ready Fara, because now it's time for you to die."

Aurella raises the knife, and with one quick motion, brings it down on the little finger of my left hand. I scream as warm blood starts to stain the pavement. I watch in horror as the knife goes up again, slower this time, and begins its descent into the small finger of my right hand. It has started to cut through flesh, and I can feel it in the bone too, when a fist-sized rock hits Rowik's skull. A cannon booms as he falls to the ground, his large fingers still tangled in my hair.

Aurella jumps away, leaving the knife still in my partially-severed finger. I can't move; the large boy's dead fingers still hold my head. I spot Airion then, crouching with another rock in his hand. Aurella pulls out another knife and runs towards him with it pointed at the Wolf's throat. Airion is faster, and throws the rock with perfect accuracy. It hits its target spot-on with a dull crunch that leaves me cringing and shivering. After the cannon fires, Airion rushes over to me and pulls me free of Rowik.

"Thanks," I gasp, as I tug the knife out of my right hand. I double over as I shove my left hand against my stomach to use the cotton in my shirt to stop the bleeding. "Can you cut a piece off the back of my shirt?" I ask Airion, still trying to stop the blood flow from the stump where my pinky used to be.

"Yeah, sure." He walks briskly over to Aurella's dead body - which they haven't airlifted out yet - and deftly plucks the knife from her fingers. He hurries back over and cuts out a large portion of the back of my shirt, handing it to me. "Do you, uh, need any help with that?" he asks, cringing as he watches me cover the stump in the absorbent cloth and wrap the deep cut on my other hand.

"Nope," I say, straightening up. "I'll be fine."

"You know, you're taking the whole losing a finger thing pretty well." He looks at my hands, bandaged in cloth and still bleeding.

"I'm mostly trying not to think about it too much. Because if I do, I'll scream. And that won't be good." At that moment, the various birds perched on downed wires and debris piles stop singing. A single creature - a mockingjay, I think - gives a few notes as a hovercraft draws near. "I wonder what took it so long," I wonder out loud, gesturing with my less-damaged hand at the flying craft. The claw descends towards Rowik, and I realize I haven't stripped either of them yet. "Airion! Grab his bag before he gets picked up. I'll get hers." I give Airion the one we're more pressed for time with, seeing as neither of my hands are very useful right now.

With a grunt, I flip Aurella onto her stomach and rip the backpack off her shoulders. I hunt around in her pockets and jacket and pull out a half-full water bottle. I turn back to Airion, who has just fallen backwards onto the ground. The backpack is in his arms, and I realize that when the limp form released the bag, the force sent him into the ground. The claw reaches down and wraps around Rowik. I watch as it carries him into the sky, and then dips back down for Aurella. Her brown hair falls loose as she is carried upwards, fluttering in the wind like some sort of strange animal. \

Airion reaches for my hand, but I jerk back. For one thing, my hand _hurts,_ and for another thing, I promised myself I wouldn't get into a relationship here. I can't watch somebody I care about die. Not again. And besides, I like Cormac. What would he say if I got into a relationship with somebody else?

Not that I'm in a relationship with Cormac. I mean, I don't think I am. Am I?

_It doesn't matter, Fara. You know you won't survive this, so just stop thinking about him. It'll be better if you just let him go now. It'll be better than if you have to quit cold turkey as you die. Just stop thinking about him._ I shake my head, pulling myself away from my own thoughts.

"Um, Fara. Are you okay?" Airion is staring at me rather strangely, and it dawns on me that my face is drawn into a fierce scowl, and I'm glaring at the ground.

"Yeah I'm fine. I was just thinking about who all is dead so far. I can't really remember."

"Well," the Wolf starts. "There's Jade, both from Two, the girl from Three, the girl from Five, the guy from Ten, the guy from Eleven, and both from Twelve. That's nine tributes in three days. The Capitol should be having a field day over this one." Airon shakes his head.

"Which ones did I kill?" I ask quietly. "After a couple, I looked away. I know I killed five, but I don't know which five."

"Jade, girl from Three, girl from Five, guy from Ten, guy from Eleven." Airion's voice is calm, but restrained.

I close my eyes for a moment, frozen in thought. I really have become a killer. My kill list is the highest right now. I'm feeling sick, so I sit on the ground and stare hard at a rock, willing myself not to cry. Not on camera.

And then it hits me. _Really _hits me.

I've killed five. It's my time to die. The only question is, when will the clock chime?

I jump as, somewhere across the wrecked city, an old grandfather clock begins to sound.

**Thanks for reading! I have exactly two reviews, but lots of views, so I KNOW YOU PEOPLE ARE READING THIS! REVIEW! On another note, I have gotten some really good submissions for my SYOT, but I would love to get a whole lot more! And by that I mean, please submit some tributes (you can do more than one, but I think I'm going to limit three), and you can even reserve ahead of time. Just check out my profile to see the open slots.**

**Chapter Seven will come sooner than this one, probably!**

**Keep reading!**


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